Blue Moon
by AliLamba
Summary: 1 of ?, 1xR AU // Organized crime, prostitution and drugs. In this rotten city, in the dead heat of summer, it's a wonder anyone survives.


BLUE MOON

(chapter one)

by AliLamba

* * *

A blond man stood at the microphone, both arms anchoring himself by clutching the corners of the podium. There was a pause as the crowd hushed, and the man brought a fist to his mouth to cough.

Sweat covered his brow from the heat, though could be easily misconstrued as from pressure. He stood up straight as he addressed the audience.

"I don't know if anyone can remember what it is like to walk on the shore of Lake Michigan. The varying shades of blue lap against the sandy shore, the evergreen trees that bring shade when you need it.

"It has been too long that we have all feared taking the streets at night." Newly elected Mayor Quatre Raberba Winner's face was solemn as he continued to speak to the crowd, whose faces shone in vicarious triumph.

His opponents had called him "conservative", "right-winged" and "close-minded", but he was tough enough to withstand the mud slinging. His voice now resonated over and through the bodies of hundreds, all congregated in the late afternoon heat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his press secretary; her long pale blond hair could catch the eye of any. Dorothy's face was gleaming with cool success in the way that always left Quatre feeling cold. It did now, sending shivers down his spine despite the near hundred-degree weather and oppressive humidity.

The pages in front of him gleamed white, the ink poisoning the once untainted surface with political words, which flew from his mouth like sweet venom.

"The time has passed where God alone would be able to save the souls which terrorize our city. I ask the police to take a firmer stand with me against organized crime and the drug world, so that we can one day soon enjoy our home."

He knew what was coming next. Alongside Dorothy now came the suited man—tall, broad-shouldered, and with the most mysterious hairstyle obscuring one eye to the world, as if he had something terrible to hide.

"I introduce to you, as my first movement as Mayor, your new Chief of Police…Mr. Trowa Barton," Quatre's voice cracked over the man's name, but he was drowned by the sweeping applause of the masses.

He turned to his right as Trowa walked on stage, and they shook hands to the flashes of camera bulbs.

Quatre's hand slid, sweaty, into the taller man's. Noticing, Quatre tried to keep the embarrassed grimace off his face as he counted four slow, timed beats inside his head. He dropped Trowa's hand perhaps too quickly and returned to the podium, police chief standing graciously behind him, but still in view of the press.

"I do not like the word 'threat', but I issue one now: to those who terrorize our city, you are no longer wanted here. The time has passed when we could once forgive your mistakes, and now it is up to us to punish you.

"Either surrender to our authorities obediently, or you will never be allowed into our borders again."

* * *

In a small shadowed bar on the outskirts of town, a man waited for the barmaid to hit the television just right, waited for the picture to get back in focus.

The air wasn't working either—heat oozing through the open windows like a fog. The old ceiling fan made more noise than relief from the heat. Losing his patience, the man at the table drowned the last of his beer and stood from the round, wooden table, just as applause echoed from the fuzzy screen.

He grimaced inwardly at the taste left on his tongue.

The bartender's own repugnance didn't escape the man's watchful eye as the owner cleaned his glassware.

The man fished out and opened his wallet, searching for bills with calloused hands. Just as he went to put the cash on the counter, he heard the grunt of the bartender to get his attention.

"I know who you are," the bartender told him, almost proud of himself, mostly riled, gesturing to the man's left arm, to the symbolized threat that lay beneath the fabric of his black leather jacket.

The man in the jacket paused and looked the bartender in the eye. The bartender was not one to be stared down, and quickly turned his head away, "This is _your_ territory," he scoffed and shook his head, "Like I can accept that money."

The bartender heard the returning grunt and slap of money, but didn't move immediately. He looked up just in time to see Heero's back as he went to go report to his boss.

* * *

Treize's cool gray blue eyes flickered up at the door as Heero entered discretely. The paperwork on his desk dropped gracefully from his hands, as his eyes went to his accountant, who was trying his hardest not to quiver in his seat before the cool desk of mahogany.

"I'm afraid we'll have to continue this tomorrow, Mr. Brodey," the accountant jumped before regaining his composure, the deadened and ever-terrified look in his eyes stemming from years trying to convince himself he wasn't working for the mob.

"Thank you for your time. My secretary will see to it that you may reschedule."

Mr. Brodey stood nervously, casting an uneasy glance at Heero as he passed by his figure on the way out the door. The thighs of his pants were damp with sweat and rumpled, and the balding man was still fingering the materiel nervously with his briefcase clutched to his chest.

Heero snorted when the man had left the room, turning back towards his employer. His eyes came to rest on a gift-wrapped box on the edge of Treize's desk and nodded towards it, "You bought me a present?"

Treize grinned with his mouth, but his steel-like eyes did not.

"I didn't know it was your birthday." Heero's eyebrows went up the minutest fraction; Treize was not wont to giving his prostitutes gifts.

"Did you see the news today?" Treize asked casually in his quiet, silvery voice, seeming to leave a chill in the air from his breath. He shuffled the papers on his desk into a manila folder, pushing them to the side to rest his elbows on the polished mahogany of his desk. His clean, even fingernails scratched at something invisible on the lacquered surface.

"Yeah, I did."

"What do you think?" Treize leaned back into his chair as Heero stood stiffly against the wall, one arm in his jeans pocket and the other hanging by his side.

"He has contacts. His older sister is running for senator in Connecticut, and the rest of their family is heavy on…" he glanced at his employer, trying to pick the right word, "champagne politics. Estate value roughly thirty million dollars, not including whatever's owed to them from loans to winning politicians. There's little chance we could bribe him continuously, if at all.

"As far as his record…it's clean."

Treize shook his head and looked down, "And Mr. Barton?"

"Hn," Heero paused, his mind was a computer screen, teeming with life as he rattled off the information. "He was one of those responsible for leaking Miami."

Treize lifted a hand to his temple, where the slightest of knots had formed. "How is Francoise?" he asked, remembering the day when he had stumbled into his office, splashing dark, crimson blood everywhere. He was supposed to be taking in another thirty kilos from South America, but things had gone terribly wrong…In the Florida heat they had lost four, good men.

"He died earlier this morning. Giambi was supposed to tell you."

"I'm sure he's trying to comfort Francoise's family. Will you be here for Saturday's service?"

Heero seemed unfazed as he looked towards the window, where the shades were drawn, casting the room in darkness. The only source of light came from hooded lamps, casting a dim glow upon the dark greens and maroons of the room.

"I don't know— will I?"

Treize shook his head again slightly, a wry grin on his features, "I'm sorry, I forgot about business," sometimes it was disgusting how much Yuy lacked the ability to feel, "We'll need to arrange a talk with Mr. Winner."

Heero nodded. "And Barton?"

Treize was suddenly pensive. He put his elbows on the desk, hiding his mouth behind his steepled fingers as he peered at his friend with a look calm, composed, and full of meaning.

"I won't kill a cop, Treize."

"I'm not asking you to. I know how…messy that can get."

There was a pregnant pause.

Heero stood from the wall, "I'll arrange for Mr. Winner's arrival."

Treize let him get his hand on the doorknob before drawing his attention back into the room.

"They say there's a thin blue line, between cops and anarchy."

Heero nodded with the slightest inclination of his strong chin, his back to Treize, "I don't know what's better."

And then she was there, in a burst of light.

Heero heard the door burst open rather than see it, felt the figure run into his shoulder on her way past him before the image connected in his mind.

There was sudden music coursing through his mind—a gigantic symphony of Mozart.

Heero turned as if suspended in slow motion, heard his boss say her name with warmth he had never known.

"Relena…"

Long, endless legs ended in a tight butt, barely concealed by a tiny black leather mini-skirt. With the long strides she was taking his dark blue eyes were glued to the tops of her black, lace-topped stockings, the small clasps holding them to whatever lingerie she was barely hiding. Streaming golden hair glowed in the lamplight of room, which was suddenly devoid of air.

"_Treize_, for the last time, I don't want your charity!" she yelled, and it was only now that Heero noticed the bundle of fur she was throwing onto his desk.

The man of power sighed slightly and shook his head, standing and effectively not looking at his unwanted gift, "Relena…"

"I'll be _damned_, Treize, if I let you shower me with gifts to try and make me someone I'm not."

"Relena, you know I didn't mean—"

"I don't even like fur!"

Heero was stunned silent. It was her sudden presence, he was trying to tell himself, and not her unmistakable beauty. Her flawless pale skin covered her small delicate shoulders, the sudden heavy scent leaving him dazed. The tight little ass that he was getting an amazing view of as she leaned over his desk.

And suddenly the notion passed of taking her like that—against the desk, her hands clawing the wood as she clenched over his shaft, coming again and again…

He tried not to elaborate as he forced indifference at the attraction so immediate. Fighting the flinch of his member against its constrains.

He was aware enough to catch Treize's slight cough, "I'm sorry about this, Heero," he offered a lame smile to his colleague, "It looks like a lover's spat."

Relena whipped around to notice him for the first time, and he got the first glance of depthless cerulean blue eyes, finding himself at once caught unable to move. A spattering of green surrounded her pupils…It was all too brief a moment before he forced himself to look away.

"It looks more like a child's tantrum."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her give an angry gasp as her brows furrowed at him. She had just a shade of freckles across her slender nose.

"_Excuse me_?" she challenged.

Treize was trying to cover a chuckle with a cough, but a quick glance from Relena proved she wasn't fooled. "I resent that," her cool gaze landed on Heero again, "I don't know who you are, but I assure you that I am not a child."

Heero heard the words automatically, "You're certainly acting like one."

Relena whipped to look at Treize, who was looking in another direction. Her cheeks pinched as her full, red-painted lips straightened. "_Look_," she spat, annoyed, "I don't know _who_ you are, but I was here to talk to Treize."

She looked him up and down with an aloof expression.

"I don't remember ever having sex with you."

Both men hid their embarrassment, but once again Heero's mouth moved with unknown motive, "That's Mr. Kushrenada, to his whores."

Her pretty, perfect mouth gaped, "Don't you _dare_ judge me! Who the hell are you? _What the hell do you think you know_!"

Treize stood from his chair at her outburst, and Heero thought momentarily that he was going to be sent from the room. "Relena, please. This is Heero Yuy," Was there a flinch when his name was mentioned? "A loyal member of our extended family. I would advise not to go against him."

"Heero…" her lashes were an inky black, framing her eyes, "Sort of an ironic name, don't you think?"

Heero bristled at her comment, and suddenly he was focused again.

He was disgusted with himself for his immediate impression of her as anything but a cheap whore. They were all the same. All of them.

Defensive and desperate, hooked on anything they could find. The only thing that would distinguish her from the throngs of others was the wild, untamed look in her eyes—it was passion of a different kind that Heero forced himself to ignore. His body had only reacted because she must be good at her job. She was just an abnormal, cheap whore.

"Don't worry," he sneered, "I won't rescue you."

He had expected an immediate retort, some snide comment.

But he was surprised when the fierce look fell from her features and sudden vulnerability took place, before she let her head drop, suddenly silent.

There was an awkward moment as Treize let his gaze linger on the slight woman and then settle on Heero. Treize didn't have to say anything.

"I'll wait outside," Heero muttered, and strode from the room.

He slammed the door behind him with a resounding _bang_. Treize's secretary jumped an inch from her seat, looking around, startled, before her eyes fell on Heero. She gave him a reprimanding look before turning to her typewriter.

Heero let out his breath in a hiss between his clenched teeth. He ran a hand through his hair, turning his face to the ceiling with closed eyes. His heart was racing inexplicitly—Heero started to count to ten, slowly, to regain his composure.

Their muffled voices came from the office behind him, but he could only hear the inflections. Relena seemed to be furious about something.

What was uncharacteristic of his boss was the way he was tolerating it. He could hear him cooing over her, but her voice seemed only to rise in pitch. Heero felt her name form in his mind before he could stop it—_Relena_.

Two images flashed through his mind, in the aftermath of his spoiled meeting.

Her eyes, ablaze with smoldering blue.

And her perfect ass.

Heero's groan turned into a strangled snarl as he tore from the annex, barely grunting to Treize's secretary that he'd be back in a couple hours.

* * *

Duo always answered Heero's call.

No matter how often Heero got, "_Now_, Heero!" or "Heero, man, I'm really busy…" or "Crime's not going to magically stop, man, just for Rita's coffee and pie."

As long as the phone rang, Heero knew it would always be less than an hour at the diner alone.

It was twenty minutes of trying not to think to himself before the long, brown braid followed Duo into the diner some ten miles outside of town. Only truckers and rodents knew how to find the greasy food, and waitresses who has seen more than their fair share.

Lieutenant Maxwell plopped unceremoniously into the booth Heero was stretched in idly, a half empty cup of black coffee in front of him.

"Jeezus Christ, it's _hot_ out there," was his greeting, before he caught the attention of a passing server in pink and white, "Hey, Lola, do you think you could grab me a cup of coffee and a slice of whatever smells so great?"

Lola responded to his wily grin with a flirtatious giggle as she stopped in her path, bringing a dainty hand to her hip.

"That's Rita's apple pie, Mr. Duo, and you know it." She shook her head fondly and Duo's grin spread.

"It sounds nearly as great as you, darlin'," he gave her a wink, "Grab me some?"

Lola rolled her eyes charmingly and went to fetch his order.

Heero gave his old acquaintance a moment to stare at Lola's retreating butt, before bringing him back to the room.

"What's with Barton?" his voice was low, even with the bad music pouring from the jukebox.

Duo's trademark grin turned to his old friend. "It's good to see you too, buddy."

Heero didn't respond with words, but his eyes glanced at Duo's.

"No formalities? Well, what a surprise." Duo's smile didn't falter as he rolled his eyes.

"I wonder if I should bother asking how thing's are going with you this fine afternoon. This isn't even the worst of it, let me tell ya. Once August comes rolling into town…_woo-wee_!"

Duo grinned as Lola placed his order before him, with a scoop of unrequested, but entirely welcome vanilla ice cream on top. Duo didn't miss a beat as he picked up his spoon and hastily shoveled a large bite of the melting dessert into his mouth.

He spoke around the quickly melting confection, "And man, if I don't get that air working back at my place _soon_, Hilde's going to have my neck for her washing line—"

Heero had heard enough.

"Barton, Duo."

His oldest acquaintance added the gesture of his moving head in time with his rolling eyes. "Yeah, yeah…" Duo shoveled another bite into his mouth, chewing normally as he actually tried to collect his thoughts. The pie was half-gone.

"I think this Winner guy means it, Heero."

Heero's eyes were trained on the coffee mug, the blue/gray speckle that decorated the ceramic.

"And this Barton guy means business—I mean, he implemented this whole new system of paperwork, and you should have seen him when he found one of Dekim's guys—Heinrich, or something—I mean, there was _barely_ a trial! Trowa's set on putting you guys behind bars for the rest of your life—or worse, if he can get it."

Duo gave his friend a guarded look. "You better watch your ass, buddy."

Heero snorted and turned his head to look towards the kitchen. "Watch yours."

The braided man grinned fiendishly. "Hey, you wanna go grab some hoops after this? We haven't hit the pavement in a long time."

There was the briefest pause.

"Duo, you have to stop using."

The silence descended upon their table like a block of ice. Duo, about to tackle his last bite of pie, halted his fork in midair, and froze. It was a full twenty seconds before either of them spoke again.

"You don't know what it's like, man." Duo's fork clattered to the tabletop with a bit more effort than he had intended, and he glared at his pie.

"Hilde's expecting. _Again_. I thought one of us would've gone impotent after the twins, but…" Duo's glare turned to Heero, suddenly defensive. "Hey, man, what do you know? I've got a family, and bills that I have to pay, and a legitimate, honest, _job_, that I have to work hard at to put food on the table for my pregnant wife and three boys. What do you do? What have you done since you got out of St. Mary's?"

"Duo, calm down," Heero's gaze was level, his voice hushed.

Lola appeared at their table with a coffee pot, and leaned over to fill Heero's mug. She 'tsk'ed as she eyeballed the rim of his mug.

"You're going to rot those teeth of yours, Mr. Duo, the way you go eatin' Rita's pie. Not to say she's not flattered, but you better watch your diet if you're going to be chasing after those bad guys all day." She smiled warmly as she leaned up.

Immediately charming again, Duo gave her his biggest grin, "Ah, but this is the only real motivation I got out there. This and your sweet smile."

Lola shook her head with a giggle and reached for Duo's plate. "You want another piece, Mr. Duo?"

"Nah, I'm okay for today. Thanks, though." Lola nodded and cleared his unfinished dessert. As soon as she was out of eyesight Duo's face turned solemn again, his face draining of any happiness he could hold briefly in place.

"I've even gone back to Dekim's stuff, man. I can't afford my rent, let alone your shit."

"I'm not funding your drug habit, Duo." Heero's voice was harsh, though he had said the phrase so many times before.

He knew that when he stood from the table first, he would leave the couple hundreds he had in his wallet on the table. Duo would be silent as he looked at the cash, knowing that somewhere, perhaps now too deep down, he didn't want to accept it at all, but knowing more than anything that he needed it.

Knowing the money wasn't for his services as a cop, but because he was—or used to be—a friend.

When Duo would look up, discretely sliding the bills into his jacket before Lola could make another round, he would see the television screen.

Quatre Raberba Winner's face would be there—a repeat of the speech from earlier this afternoon. Duo would shake his head, slowly and sadly, and pray to whatever that was left that something good would happen to this ruined city.

* * *

Thanks for reading – Ali 


End file.
